Some Other Day
by Yumi-chan-likes-chainsaws
Summary: England has mixed feelings about the rain. USxUK


Rain.

Rain is so often portrayed in books as happy, exciting; happy teenagers, hand in hand, running through the rain on the roof of an apartment block, feeling like children splashing in puddles and knowing secretly that the warmth in their hand is no longer their mother trying to stop their fun, but from a much more sinister kind of love or lust.

Rain is also shown as being depressing and dull, dismal and dark. It's shown for when the love turns to lust and the lust turns to nothing. Nothing at all and all you're left with is a broken umbrella and nothing saved for your rainy day, because it had come and went and you no longer thought the rain could threaten you.

But you were mistaken. So very very sadly mistaken.

-x-

_19 October, 1781_

It's over.

England doesn't have to look up to know that America has turned away from him. He can hear the swish of his jacket and the placement of boots in the mud that England is currently sunken in. He doesn't have to look up to know that America is walking away from him.

He tries to choke something out, some plea that he knows will fall on deaf ears; as has all his previous begging. There is nothing he can do, and when he realises this it hits him like a ton of bricks, doing just as much damage to his head.

"D-don't," he manages to say, his fists curling and uncurling in the mud. But he hears no telltale swish of clothes or any movement from the other to indicate that he has even been heard.

But then America speaks.

"It's over," he says quietly, emotionless but weary, "It's already all over."

England still doesn't look up. If he doesn't see it, it can't be real. But then he hears another swish of clothes and footsteps and with a jolt he realises that they are getting further and further away.

By the time he finds the will to lift his head, America's out of sight and all he can see is the lashing rain.

-x-

When England was younger, the rain bothered him. He couldn't get much hunting done when the weather was so bad he couldn't see his hand in front of him. And, a lot of the time, he had no form of shelter and ended up getting drenched to the skin.

As he got older though, he rather liked looking at it, through his window while sipping a cup of tea. Even if it didn't rain much in the American colonies, it was rather pretty when it did. America would yell happily, putting on his rain mack to go jumping in the puddles and, even if it meant England had to wash him and his clothes again, he could never quite say no and make him stay inside.

Although, back in England, with the knowledge that the American colonies no longer existed, the rain feels quite lonely, pitter pattering against the window. So England takes up his cup of something much stronger than usual tea and pulls across the curtains.

-x-

_22 January, 1940_

Everyday lately it seemed to be raining.

England has tried to put it down to the bombs and the unsettled dust; that it just felt like it was raining more often because all of his civilians are so terrified that the weather is an easier conversation for them than the war.

But it rains in England's head too. Whether or not it was raining in _England_, it is always raining in _England. _

He always hates the fact that he issafe in his cottage in the middle of nowhere, and unable to be fatally wounded by the blasts anyways, when everyone else is out dying for nothing but a dodgy treaty and an attempt at a united empire. Sleeping is impossible at night which ends up with him dozing off through meetings and ending up being karate chopped on the back of the head by his ungrateful former colony.

But when said ungrateful ex colony appears at his door late in the evening, in the lashing rain, England still lets him in and tuts while he sheds off his jacket and drips water all over the carpet.

"What are you doing here?" England asks, taking America's jacket and hooking it on the clothes hanger, "And at this hour no less. I could have been asleep."

America grins and pulls down his jumper before waltzing into England's sitting room like he lives there. "Asleep at seven thirty?" he says incredulously, "Doubt it. I know you're an old man and all, but that's just stupid."

He plonks down on the sofa and it suddenly looks so comfortable to England that he makes his way over and sits beside him, leaning back into the cloth. "I don't have to be old to be exhausted. Some of us have a war to fight around here, you know."

America smiles and pulls England closer, ignoring his sputtering and protests to be let go when his head is pulled mercilessly on to America's shoulder, resting between his shoulder blade and neck. "Sleep then," America replies, still smiling that infuriatingly innocent smile.

England huffs and looks away as best as he can from his current position. "Don't be stupid," he mutters, but relaxes against him anyways.

America starts humming and England would usually find it irritating and distracting but suddenly he is just too tired to care anymore. He just wants to sleep and America looks like a hazy but worthy pillow at the moment.

America's hand twitches a few times before he makes his decision and lets it slowly approach England's head, resting on the crown of it and running his fingers through his hair a few times, still humming as words begin to form.

"Rain rain, go away, please come back some other day."

But England is already asleep.


End file.
